• p.n.c

i am not a house, i am a home.

Updated: May 17

here lies,

the house you envisioned as a small child

the old two-story home 

with windows overlooking the riverside

the white picket fenced surrounding every acre

with land as far as the eye can see

the garden

with lilacs, and lilies.

roses, and peonies

types of lavender, periwinkle

here lies

the house you envisioned as a small child

distant and absent from civilization

with a doorbell that rings softly imitating chimes and rain

come in,

deter your attention from the cracks visible in the windowsill

or the crevices on the old wooden oak

there are three bedrooms

one for each heartbreak you’ve been forced to endure

the aroma of old wood, rum, and cigarettes fill the air

kind of like the scent of papa when he first held you in his arms

step inside the kitchen

where the gas stove hasn’t been on in ages

the last meal was held centuries ago by the happy couple that once was

here lies,

the attic that bears the large window 

with a significant view

that you can only describe as artistic

i would say fix the crevices on the floor, the cracks in the windowsill, 

the dirty that was once white, picket-fence

but if you’d do that

there’d be no history

the house would be a house rather than a home

before you leave and never look back,

remember, that the most beautiful things in life 

are wrinkled and flawed

as beauty rises from ashes 

-i am not a house, i am a home.

p.n.c.




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